“Well—how could I help knowing after that?”
“Knowing what?” Mr. Grew stood staring helplessly at his son. Suddenly his look caught at a clue that seemed to confront it with a deeper bewilderment. “You thought—you thought those letters ... Dolbrowski’s letters ... you thought they meant ...”
“Oh, it wasn’t only the letters. There were so many other signs. My love of music—my—all my feelings about life ... and art... And when you gave me the letters I thought you must mean me to know.”
Mr. Grew had grown quiet. His lips were firm, and his small eyes looked out steadily from their creased lids.
“To know that you were Fortune Dolbrowski’s son?”
Ronald made a mute sign of assent.
“I see. And what did you mean to do?”
“I meant to wait till I could earn my living, and then repay you ... as far as I can ever repay you... But now that there’s a chance of my marrying ... and your generosity overwhelms me ... I’m obliged to speak.”
“I see,” said Mr. Grew again. He let himself down into his chair, looking steadily and not unkindly at the young man. “Sit down, Ronald. Let’s talk.”
Ronald made a protesting movement. “Is anything to be gained by it? You can’t change me—change what I feel. The reading of those letters transformed my whole life—I was a boy till then: they made a man of me. From that moment I understood myself.” He paused, and then looked up at Mr. Grew’s face. “Don’t imagine I don’t appreciate your kindness—your extraordinary generosity. But I can’t go through life in disguise. And I want you to know that I have not won Daisy under false pretences—”